The Day Of Fire Is Coming, The

It Is June. I Am Tired Of Being Brave.

My Death From The Wrists, Two Name Tags, Blood Worn Like A Corsage To Bloom One On The Left And One On The Right.

In A Dream You Are Never Eighty.

Now I Am Just An Elderly Lady Who Is Full Of Spleen, Who Humps Around Greater Boston In A God-awful Hat, Who Never Lived And Yet Outlived Her Time, Hating Men And Dogs And Democrats.

Mood Can Be As Important As Sense.